


predatory drift

by sundaycat



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Kink Meme, Knotting, M/M, Werewolves, hunt avatar martin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24111226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sundaycat/pseuds/sundaycat
Summary: The remains of the bedding hang in tatters off the mattress and strewn across the floor, along with most of Martin’s clothes. And then, huddled in the corner, there’s Martin, the horrible new shape of him, huge and shaggy.“Well,” says Jon after a minute, “it’s…not that bad.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 8
Kudos: 337
Collections: Rusty Kink





	predatory drift

**Author's Note:**

> for the kink meme prompt: "so, how about some werewolfy, hunt avatar martin action? he's basically just a big puppy, it's so easy for jon to forget martin's a vessel for a dread power. it's a little less easy when martin's pinning him to the floor and knotting him with his teeth on jon's neck."

Martin’s locked himself up since he realized how bad it was getting, after the change really started. Locking himself in his flat is apparently his only defense against malevolent supernatural forces, and it more or less worked out for him last time, so he can only hope it’ll work again now that the horrible fear manifestation is on this side of the door.

He just wants to make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone. He doesn’t want to, but he can feel the urge rising in him worse the longer he stays here. He’s been pacing circles around his flat, restless, needing to be on the move. He’s looking for something, and there’s nothing exciting to latch onto in his self-imposed confinement, but the need still writhes inside him.

He’s been evasive about what’s happening to him, but he knows that at this point all his coworkers suspect basically what’s going on. He’d first sent a bunch of placating replies downplaying his condition to all their attempts to contact him, and then as it got worse and their questioning got more frantic, he’d given up and started ignoring his phone entirely. It buzzes a few times now, and Martin doesn’t even bother to look at it. He’s not sure he could even operate it to send a reply if he wanted to, what with the paw-hand situation he’s now developed.

More buzzing. Martin lets it buzz. He’s been trapped in here, sweating, smoldering, grinding his teeth, for long enough that other people’s concern for him and for the gravity of the situation has become distant and unreal. His only urgency right now is the rising tangle of furor in his belly and the flexing of every muscle in his body, trying to keep it down.

When he hears the knock at the door, it’s the first sound he’s been aware of in hours other than his own rapid heartbeat and the rush of blood in his ears. It jolts him to attention and he feels his ears stand up, feels the new bristling sensation of the fur on his hackles rising. The disorganized hum of agitation he’s been feeling instantly gathers to a point, all focused on this new stimulus.

“Martin,” calls Jon from the other side of the door. “Are you there?”

Oh. Oh, no. Of all the people to try to come here despite his insistence to stay away—

“I told you not to come,” Martin calls back. His voice sounds weird and rough, with another layer to the sound in the new, deeper shape of his throat.

“I’m not going to just leave you here, Martin. Can I come in?”

Martin grits his teeth. “No.”

“Martin. Please. I just want to know what’s happening.”

“It’s bad and you can’t come in here is what’s happening!” He should have just pretended not to be here when Jon knocked. Fuck. He hates this. He doesn’t want to be arguing with Jon through the door, he just wants to be left to suffer alone. “It’s not safe for you here, Jon, just—please just go home.”

“I’m not going home. Please let me in,” Jon says. Muffled through his insistent tone and the wood of the door, Martin thinks he sounds a little…scared? Something new in him, some receptor sensitive to fear, lights up at that. The little thrill he feels in part of him confirms to the rest of him that Jon needs to get the fuck out of here as fast as he can.

“You’re not coming in here,” says Martin, trying to say it with finality. 

On the other side of the door, Jon pauses for a moment. Martin hopes desperately that he’s giving up, he’ll go now. 

Then, his voice dripping with knowledge fresh from the wellspring, Jon says, “You have a spare key under your neighbor’s doormat at the end of the hall.”

“No!” Martin yelps. “Jon—Jon, do _not_ —”

Jon doesn’t answer, probably gone down the hall to get the key. Martin spins around on the spot, snapping his jaw in frustration. He curses Jon. He curses himself for being forgetful enough to need a spare key in the first place. The flat has abruptly gone from feeling like a padded cell to feeling like a fox trap, and the tipping over of his sense of control over the situation is making him dizzy and frantic. He hears the key in the lock.

Martin does the last thing he can do to attempt to put distance between himself and Jon, and flees from the door to the back of the flat, into his bedroom. He crouches there, whiskers quivering at something in the air, as he hears Jon open the door.

“Martin,” calls Jon from the entrance, “please.”

“Jon,” he wails, panicking, “don’t come back here!” 

Jon, of course, doesn’t listen, and Martin hears his footsteps coming towards the bedroom. There’s nowhere else for him to go now. He tucks himself into the corner and hunkers down, one last effort at shrinking as far away from Jon as he can.

He has his eyes squeezed shut, so he doesn’t see Jon appear in the doorway, but he hears his footsteps stop, and he senses the new, nearby presence from across the room. It’s another one of these new types of awareness that have been thickening inside him, the ability to feel tiny shifts of weight across the ground, to discern the movement of a living body even without looking.

Jon doesn’t cross the threshold. The lights are off in the room, but with the door open it’s not so dark that he won’t be able to see the scene inside. Martin’s shredded his bedsheets just to have something to get his teeth into, to rip through. It’s not enough. It doesn’t fill him up. It’s like eating air. The remains of the bedding hang in tatters off the mattress and strewn across the floor, along with most of Martin’s clothes. And then, huddled in the corner, there’s Martin, the horrible new shape of him, huge and shaggy.

“Well,” says Jon after a minute, “it’s…not that bad.”

This cannot be the truth. Martin’s been avoiding mirrors for the past day or so for fear of confirming any more how the transformation is progressing, but he knows generally what he looks like. When it started, it was just the hair on his chest getting thicker, his canine teeth poking out slightly longer. Whatever he is now is incongruous to look at, with a build like the image of a movie werewolf, but with thick tawny fur and the floppy ears of a Labrador. He doesn’t know if he looks scary, per se, but he certainly doesn’t look like a _person_ , and that’s scary enough to him.

There’s nowhere else to turn his face to, and finally Martin has to look at Jon. He’s dreading the way Jon must be staring at him, but when he opens his eyes, Jon doesn’t look afraid or disgusted at his state, just sorry. 

Martin breaks a little. Jon came for him. Of course he did. Jon will know what to do. Jon can help him.

Jon steps through the door, towards Martin. He crosses the room, coming closer, and that’s when Martin catches his scent. It feels familiar, even though his sense of smell never would have been strong enough to know Jon by it before now. It feels like something he’s known all along and is just now perceiving fully for the first time, deeper and more alluring than before. Jon smells like skin and sweat and living animal, not like the unpleasant smell of an unwashed body, but like the intimate smell of a boyfriend’s old t-shirt. He smells like Jon.

It’s the scent of what he’s wanted for so long and been afraid to pursue. Something stirs in Martin. He tries to say something, to warn Jon one last time to get _away_ , but all that comes out is a low, raspy “ _Jon._ ”

Jon crouches to be at level with him, and Martin feels his shoulders tense. He tries to keep the feeling down. It’s like trying not to vomit. When Jon tries to extend a hand out to him, a surge of it swells up inside him, and without thinking about it, Martin springs at him and knocks him to the floor.

He doesn’t know why. Even as he’s mid-strike, as Jon hits the ground and Martin’s weight comes down on top of him, he thinks, _What the hell am I doing? Why did I do that?_ But Jon goes down so easily, and the success of the takedown is such a thrill that to letting him up now would shatter the accomplishment.

If Jon shouted at him now, said his name or something, appealed to the reason that hasn’t yet been crowded out of his mind entirely, maybe it would knock Martin back to his senses. If he’d even just gone still and played dead, maybe Martin would have a second to catch his breath and come back to himself. But Jon acts on an instinct as ancient as Martin’s and thrashes, trying to escape. As Jon flails under him, Martin feels a snarl roll out of him and presses more of his weight onto Jon, pinning him by the chest.

He doesn’t know what it is he wants to do with Jon. Not kill him, certainly. Not even hurt him. He just wants…to _have_ him, to keep him caught under his claws. The feeling of getting Jon belly-up on the ground is such a rush, satisfying in a way so deep and primal it can’t be argued with.

Jon goes limp now, but it’s too late. Martin’s blood is pumping, the switch is engaged. He’s swimming in endorphins now, and he wants more of this, another hit of that powerful feeling. Jon’s breathing has gotten quick beneath him, and Martin can hear his heartbeat racing.

“Martin,” Jon says, voice shaky, “please.” When Martin looks at him, his eyes don’t have any of the pity they did a minute ago. _Now_ he looks scared. His glasses have been knocked off and are lying on the ground a few feet away, and he looks up at Martin with bare fear and big pupils.

It makes Martin feel both crushed and excited. A shiver passes through him, and he shifts his hold on Jon, pressing on him just a touch harder.

“Let’s—let’s not…let this get out of hand, alright?” says Jon. Martin would laugh if it wasn’t horrible. Jon is way behind on realizing the depth of the situation if he thinks this isn’t already completely and totally out of hand. Things were out of hand before he even got here.

Martin has torn a hole in Jon’s shirt in the struggle, and his eyes drop to the gash in the fabric. He can see a slice of Jon’s chest through it, scuffed a little by the edge of his claw, but the skin unbroken. The small patch rises and falls as Jon breathes.

Martin hooks one claw into the torn edge of the shirt and lifts it up from Jon’s skin. Then he pulls it slowly toward himself, feeling the threads strain, then hearing the material ripping. The tear opens right down to the bottom hem of the shirt, and the fabric falls to the side, exposing most of Jon’s stomach.

“Oh,” squeaks Jon.

Martin noses at him, drawing in his scent. It’s deep and wonderful up this close, so purely Jon, fresh sweat beading off him. He’s breathing hard, the surface of his skin rising to just a hair’s breadth from Martin’s nose with each inhale.

Jon presses against Martin’s chest like he’s trying to get out from under him. Martin is much stronger than him now, and any effort Jon could try to put up would feel trivial against him, but he can tell Jon’s not pushing quite as hard as he could. He takes the fabric of Jon’s shirt in his teeth and rips it in the other direction, tearing it up through the collar. It falls away from Jon’s neck and exposes a slip of his shoulder as it crumples at his side.

Martin sniffs again, then licks across Jon’s collarbones. Jon makes a short, high noise. He tastes salty, raw. Martin wants more of it. He wants his tongue and his teeth and his mouth across all of Jon. He _wants_ , and here Jon is beneath him, his catch, his prize. Martin feels like he’s being torn in half, with the urge to continue searing through him so strong and the fear he should stop pushing back almost as hard. He feels like a circuit overheating, the resistance against the current. He knows Jon, he loves Jon, he doesn’t want to hurt Jon, but the new parts of him howl for him to use his teeth.

Martin licks a longer stripe across Jon’s chest, because it can’t hurt him just to lick, and Jon’s back arches off the floor. He has such a beautiful chest, naked and shiny with Martin’s saliva. Not particularly muscular, but has a pleasant solidness, and for some reason Martin thinks of Jon’s ribcage, and what a good job it’s doing, uncollapsed and holding his chest up. It never would have occurred to before him to find Jon’s chest fascinating simply by virtue of being intact, boxy and sound the way it’s supposed to be. You take for granted the wholeness of the body until you become familiar with it torn apart, and then the wholeness seems like a curious, fragile state, easily ruined. Why does he think of Jon’s lungs, unpierced and heaving without struggle? It repulses him and at the same time gives him a sense of admiration, like looking at a field of fresh snow that no one else has put their footprints through yet. He pushes the feeling away and focuses on the deep smell of Jon’s skin.

He runs his tongue over one of Jon’s nipples. It was hard to know the difference at first, but Martin can tell now that the rolling thrill in his stomach is more than the simple excitement of the catch. He feels the weight of arousal low in his body, and he can feel…something happening to him. A lot of weird things have been happening to his body lately, but this one is new. Until now, Martin hasn’t really given much thought to where exactly his dick has gone under all that fur, but the growing sensation has him suddenly paying attention to it. It feels like getting hard, but…not quite the same, with a feeling of pushing _out_ rather than just swelling. It’s strange, but not necessarily unpleasant. It mostly just makes him want to push further, dip lower on Jon’s body.

Martin ghosts his muzzle across Jon’s chest and then moves down to lap at his stomach. Jon squirms. Martin swipes his tongue over his navel, and then angles his head to very gently scrape his teeth against the side of Jon’s stomach.

Jon draws in a sharp breath at the feeling of teeth against his skin and instinctively tries to jerk away. Martin holds him steady. It only takes one thick paw on his chest to hold him in place. The two of them used to be of a comparable height, with Jon maybe a touch taller, but now Martin’s twice his size, and Jon feels small and malleable in his grip. He lifts his teeth from Jon’s stomach and moves to brush his nose against the waistband of his trousers.

Jon’s eyes flutter shut. “Martin,” he whispers, “what—what are you doing? What do you want?”

Martin tries to pull together a response, but he can’t find the words. He can’t find any words. He tries to express a thought in English, a simple one, just in his own mind, but the ability has slipped away from him. The concept of words hangs just out of reach. Martin doesn’t think he could explain what he wants even if he could speak, so he just growls and tugs on Jon’s waistband with his teeth.

The action is intuitive. Something in him knows what he should be doing before he can think about it. Martin has never skinned an animal, but a muscle memory that’s not his tells him that this is a process just like it. He’s already half-started the job, now finish it. Strip off the outer layer, rip through the barrier. It’s what’s underneath that he wants. Make contact with the flesh. 

“Ah—I—alright—” says Jon. Martin yanks on the fabric, and hears a seam tear somewhere. He finds the split with his claws and half-pulls, half-rips Jon’s trousers down to his ankles, dragging his briefs with them. 

Jon is partially hard. He presses his knees together as if making an attempt to cover himself, or to make himself smaller. Martin moves to hold Jon by the hips while he slides his nose up the inside of Jon’s thigh. Jon shivers and parts his legs just a tiny bit. When Martin moves up to rub his cheek against Jon’s cock, he can smell Jon’s arousal on his skin. It makes him salivate.

He draws his tongue up the side of Jon’s cock and hears him suck in air through his nose. Jon twists his hips slightly as Martin licks him a few more times, then engulfs him fully in his mouth.

Jon tenses at first at having Martin’s teeth all around his cock. Martin rolls his tongue along the underside and presses Jon lightly against the roof of his mouth, taking care to keep his jaw slack despite the tension in the rest of him. Jon relaxes bit by bit as Martin continues to suck at him gently, getting less nervous about having his dick bitten off and sinking more into the pleasure of it. 

Martin can feel the warm fullness on his tongue as Jon grows fully hard in his mouth. Jon bites his lip and moans softly as Martin works him with his tongue. Martin drinks in the sound. He watches Jon’s stomach rise and fall with each of his quick, heavy breaths.

As Martin pulls back to taste the head of Jon’s cock, the touch of saltiness there magnified by the new preciseness in his senses, he feels Jon put a hand on his head. He slips back to stroke Martin behind the ear as he licks at him. It feels nice in a way he doesn’t expect, the simple gesture of Jon’s thumb gliding over his fur, the repetition of the motion slow and soothing.

Martin’s own cock is more fully hard now, heavy and starting to ache between his legs. That curious feeling of extending rather than just hardening has stopped, so he thinks this must be as big as it gets. He’s dripping what must be precome, but there’s so _much_ of it—his body’s bigger now, so he supposes he might produce more, but even proportionally it seems excessive.

He lets Jon’s cock slip out of his mouth with one last lick across the head. Martin is salivating heavily now, and he leaves Jon wet where his mouth was. He licks at the crease of Jon’s thigh as he uses one of his hind legs to kick Jon’s shoes and the remains of his trousers off his feet so he can move his knee up.

Martin laps at the underside of Jon’s cock, moving down under his balls and dragging his tongue across his perineum. When he drops lower and presses his tongue against Jon’s hole for the first time, he hears Jon’s breath hitch, and Jon lifts his hips.

Martin drags his tongue over Jon’s entrance again. The scent of Jon and the feeling of being this close to him have him drooling copiously, and he leaves Jon coated in a generous layer of thick saliva. He circles Jon’s hole, probes at it with his tongue.

“Martin,” Jon whimpers as he continues to lick. Martin can feel Jon’s abdominal muscles flex under his paws as his hips shift. His cock bobs against Martin’s nose when he moves. He smells so good, he tastes so real, Martin _wants_ him. He can’t wait any more.

He rolls Jon over onto his stomach with one paw. Jon makes a surprised noise, but allows himself to be flipped. Martin repositions himself behind him and lines his cock up against him, and Jon balls up his fists as Martin takes a minute to rub the head of his cock around Jon’s entrance, smearing precome on him.

Then he pushes forward and mounts Jon in one bright, jagged moment of fervor. His hole is slick enough to push into between the mess of saliva and precome Martin has dripped onto him, but he’s tight and Martin’s big, so it’s a slow push, and Jon’s body twitches beneath his.

“Ah—” he gasps, “Martin—”

Martin sinks in deeper. Jon feels so perfect around him, the blessed warmth of the inside of him. 

There is nothing more magnificent than the way a live animal radiates heat. That’s what you seek, what you stalk and you tear to reach: that immaculate heat inside the core, to taste it with your own body, to know the interior. That’s the feeling you chase, to touch what’s holy, body on body, if only briefly. It’s the struggle to reach it that makes the triumph of a full mouth so sweet.

Martin presses the last few inches in until he’s enveloped fully by Jon. He stays like that for a moment, buried all the way inside, as he leans over onto Jon’s back, feeling his breath off the nape of his neck. His body blankets Jon’s smaller frame entirely. Then he gives the first roll of his hips, just barely pulling out before sinking back in.

Jon gives a muffled groan. Martin can feel a unfamiliar swelling sensation at the base of his cock where he’s joined with Jon. The spot is firm but sensitive, the pressure on it sending twinges of excitement up through him. He moves into Jon in little, shallow thrusts, not wanting to draw back an inch from the soft, hot inside of him.

Jon won’t hold still, writhing against Martin’s chest. Martin bites the back of his neck. He presses his teeth down lightly, same as he did on Jon’s stomach, not aiming to injure Jon, just to still him. If he snapped down suddenly he could kill him in an instant, he knows. It exhilarates him to have that power and to hold it back. The crush of the killing blow feels good, he knows it does, but that isn’t what he wants from Jon. As he feels Jon clench around him and go rigid in response to the teeth on his neck, he wonders: Is this what he wants? Whatever this is?

Martin loosens his jaw and just grazes Jon’s skin with his teeth, no longer biting down. He can feel the bumps of the vertebrae in Jon’s neck under his skin. The swelling in the base of his cock has grown into a thick knot that he can feel rubbing against Jon’s walls as he fucks him. The pressure inside Martin is building to a peak, almost spilling out of him.

Jon is so tender under him, so small and soft. He chokes out Martin’s name again between the little moans he’s been stifling. His spine curves into Martin’s body.

The roaring in Martin’s ears reaches a peak. He comes, riding the crest of it, shuddering hard into Jon. He digs his claws into the floor and howls. 

When it the wave finally finishes passing through him, there’s a few seconds where everything is peaceful. Martin’s knot throbs pleasantly inside Jon. His legs are a little weak, and he doesn’t feel the dreadful pressure of hunger from inside him anymore. He just floats.

Then Jon makes a noise of protest, and Martin realizes he’s slumped on top of him, no longer holding up most of his own weight. He tucks a paw under Jon’s chest and rolls both of them onto their side, to avoid smothering Jon without having to pull out.

Jon’s hand goes between his legs and he begins to stroke himself, quick and desperate. Martin lies at his back, still and lazy in the aftermath of his orgasm, but he enjoys the feeling of Jon’s inner muscles fluttering on his knot.

Jon comes quietly, only a gasp of air and the clenching of his insides to let Martin know he’s there. Afterwards, Martin can feel Jon’s heartbeat through his skin as it slows and he hears his breathing calm down. They lie like that for a minute, and the stillness of the moment, Martin experiences a tranquility he hasn’t felt in weeks. There’s no pounding in his head, no shrieking urge to chase. For once he’s free from wanting anything that’s out of his reach.

Martin’s paw is still slung around Jon’s chest, and Jon reaches up and gently closes his hand around Martin’s wrist. He strokes him there, at the point where the fur is thin, with one finger. Martin melts into the soft touch.

“Martin,” Jon whispers after a minute. He continues to pet Martin’s wrist in the same slow rhythm, but his voice goes a little trepidatious. “Are you…still there? Is that still you?”

It takes Martin a minute. HIs head is clearer now, but it still takes an effort to remember how to speak. He plunges down in his mind, casting around for language, and after some fumbling he comes up again with the first word he can find.

“Jon,” he rasps.

“Ah,” breathes Jon. He seems relieved, at least a little. “Alright.” He draws Martin’s paw in closer to his chest, right over the warm bloom of his heartbeat, and doesn’t let go.


End file.
